Beca Is the New Black
by kendrickyoulittleshit
Summary: Beca Mitchell is at the top. She's an award winning music producer, has a nationally syndicated radio show, and a loving boyfriend. All of this comes crashing down when she is named for her involvement with an international drug cartel, forcing her to face her past from within Barden Federal Corrections Facility. AU, loosely based on Orange Is the New Black.


**AN: Well hello! I didn't think I'd be back quite this soon after finishing Starstruck, but this idea wouldn't get out of my head and I think I would've made Liz cry if I hadn't written it. Speaking of Liz, this chapter is un-beta'd because I am a child and am supremely impatient, so any and all mistakes are purely mine. This will loosely follow the outline of Orange Is the New Black, and I will warn you now that updates may be sporadic and far apart, depending on work and school and all that jazz. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this, and thanks for reading!**

* * *

"Beca, babe, do you want me to bring you another drink?" Jesse called from the kitchen.

"No, I'm good," she answered, pushing a hand through her hair and looking over at her best friend. "This sucks."

"Yep," Luke nodded, taking a swig of his beer. "The show's not going to be the same without you. What am I going to talk about with that... Bicycle guy for a year's worth of shows?"

"Unicycle. And you'll figure it out," Beca said to the table, chewing on her thumbnail. She looked up and gave him a weak smile. "You always do. I'll come back and it'll be a complete brofest, and you won't even want me back."

"Don't talk like that," Luke kicked her gently under the table.

"Talk like what?" Jesse asked upon his return, depositing a beer in front of Beca, who rolled her eyes and pulled it towards herself.

"Beca seems to think that I'm going to replace her with a grown man who insists on being called _Unicycle_."

"C'mon Becaw," Jesse nudged her gently, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Let's think positive."

"Yeah," Luke nodded. "Keep your spirits up."

"Can you think of one positive thing about me going to prison?" Beca snapped. "Because I'm having kind of a hard time with the whole, you know, _prison_ thing."

"There's plenty of positives," Jesse tried. "There's, um..."

"You get a year of vacation!" Luke shot her an exaggerated smile.

"Yeah! A whole year without having to work, or do red carpets that you hate, or make small talk with executives."

"You'll get to bump up your street cred."

"Yeah, babe, maybe someone will teach you how to rap," Jesse grinned, poking her in the side until she gave a small smile.

"Hell, you might even get some action while you're in there, since, y'know, you're into that or whatever."

At this, both Beca and Jesse shot him very pointed glares.

"That was a very poor joke," Luke said hastily. "And I apologize."

After an awkward silence, he spoke again.

"So, it was Chloe who named you?"

"We don't know for sure," Jesse said, squeezing Beca's hand.

"Who else could it have been?" She sighed, taking a long pull from her beer. "I only talked to about three other people involved when it all went down, and they were way too high to remember that we were even there. It was Chloe."

"That sucks."

"Everything sucks."

"Yep."

* * *

"Music producer and radio personality Beca Mitchell begins the first day of her year-long prison sentence today. Mitchell, who is responsible for hits such as "Never Again" and "Only You," plead guilty to assisting an international drug cartel during her Can't Stop, Won't Stop tour back in 2010 when she was nineteen. A mouthpiece for Mitchell released a statement yesterday, saying: 'Beca has taken full responsibility for her actions, and will serve out her sentence with as little fanfare as possible. She deeply regrets her involvement with any wrongdoing, and wishes to apologize to her fans and supporters for her reckless actions as a teenager. She asks that her privacy be respected during this time.' Now, Gail, do you buy this statement?"

"Not at all, John," a woman's voice floated through Jesse's car speakers. "Beca is about as sorry as-"

"Turn that off, please," Beca said softly, chewing on her thumbnail as she stared down at her lap.

"Sorry," Jesse punched the stereo knob and silence filled the car as they pulled up to a large building that had "Barden Federal Corrections Facility" emblazoned across the front wall. After parking the car and cutting the engine, he looked over at Beca. "Ready?"

She took a deep breath, unbuckled her seat belt, and opened the car door. "Let's go."

* * *

Beca Mitchell lived, breathed, loved, and worshipped music. The fascination started when she was two, and her parents had given her a toy xylophone that she'd played so intensely that some of the keys had broken off. There was something about the way the sound was a result of her own tiny hands that fascinated the toddler, which resulted in the picking of her very first lock as she lowered the gate on her crib in order to bang the toy around in the middle of the night. The obsession continued when she was six and at the height of Disney mania, singing the soundtracks to Mulan and Hercules at the top of her lungs until her parents fruitlessly tried to convert her to the less musical stylings of Nickelodeon. To their dismay, she simply learned the theme songs to the new shows and began singing them too, even the instrumentals. When she was twelve, she discovered the usefulness of headphones, the crappy white Apple earbuds drowning out the sounds of slamming doors, tempestuous arguments, and strained silences. After her dad moved out, he bought her a (now unnecessary) pair of noise canceling Beats as a sort of half-hearted apology. She rejected the apology but kept the headphones. At sixteen, Beca began to create her own music, mashing together tracks on her guilt-gifted laptop and occasionally writing and recording her own songs. The mashups she posted online, catching the attention of a handful of independent radio stations by the time she was eighteen. To her parents' dismay, she decided to skip college and move straight to LA, which was like living inside a mashup with all of its different people, sounds, and walks of life. By nineteen, Beca's mashups had caught the attention of several studios, which catapulted her into success, and consequently the public eye as she produced hits, singles, and her own nationally syndicated radio show. Beca Mitchell lived, breathed, loved, and worshipped music, but now, at twenty-three, on her third day in prison, not so much.

"Bitch, if you don't stop humming, I will take this soap and shove it so far down your throat you'll shit bubbles."

Beca instantly stopped humming her latest hit, moving out from under the weak spray of the shower and grabbing her towel, the sound of snickers and stifled laughter reverberating around the community bathroom. After she felt sufficiently covered by the thin material, she stepped out of the shower and edged around the glaring woman holding the bar of soap.

"Uh huh, that's what I thought," the woman said, removing her own towel and stepping into the curtained stall. She turned the water on, and then paused and looked back at Beca, recognition dawning. "Hey, aren't you-"

"Nope," Beca said quickly, glancing around to make sure no one was looking their way. "Uh uh."

"Rule number one," the woman narrowed her eyes. "Don't fucking lie to me." Sensing Beca's discomfort as she tried to back out of the room, the woman raised her voice. "Beca Mitchell, here at Barden. How the mighty have fallen. Ladies, we are in the company of a big time super celebrity."

Beca, who had shut her eyes tightly, winced, feeling all the eyes in the room turning on her. A flush crawled up her neck as she opened her eyes, grimacing and giving a small sarcastic wave as everyone stared her down. She turned to walk away, only to run smack into another toweled individual.

"Watch ou- Oh," the person said, the lilt in her voice causing Beca's head to snap up and meet a pair of terrifyingly familiar blue eyes and mass of red hair. "It's you. Hi."

"Oh _shit_."

* * *

"You did _what_?"

"It was just a couple of times, Dad," Beca sighed, dropping her head into her hands as Jesse rubbed soothing circles on her back from his seat next to her on the couch.

"Just a couple of times that you assisted a drug cartel, Beca?" Warren Mitchell paced around his living room, one hand kneading the back of his neck. "God, what were you _thinking_?"

"Clearly I wasn't."

"Did you know about this?"

"Me?" Jesse asked, taken aback. "No. We, uh, weren't quite together yet."

"Right, right," Warren shook his head, waving a hand as if to clear the question from the air as he turned to his daughter. "That was when you were friends with that Chloe girl, right?"

"Uh," Beca flushed red, glancing up at Jesse, whose jaw clenched. "A little more than friends, Dad."

"Christ, Beca," he leaned against the mantel, rubbing at his forehead. He looked at Jesse again. "Did you know about _that_?"

Jesse shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "Not until recently, no sir. The, uh, whole bisexuality thing came as a surprise. As did the international drug cartel."

Warren sighed and sat down across from the couple. "Why'd you do it, Bec? It's not like you needed the money. You had a whole career out in front of you, so why throw it away? Did that Chloe girl put you up to it?"

"Does it matter why?" She met his eye defiantly, pursing her lips. "What matters is that I did it, it's done, and now I'm taking responsibility for it."

They fell silent, listening to the hum of the air conditioning as it rumbled to life.

"When do you go in?" Warren asked quietly.

"Saturday," Beca answered, pulling a folder out of the bag at her feet. "I printed out all of the information for you. There's a visiting schedule in there, and rules and procedures. I'd really like-" she looked down, clearing her throat. "I'd really like if you came and saw me."

"I can do that," Warren nodded, accepting the folder.

"Jesse can answer any other questions you might have once I'm... inside. And Luke will watch the cats for you when you go out of town, I already gave him the instructions and the key."

"Beca..."

"It'll be fine," she nodded once, looking back up at her father. "It's just a year. It'll be like I'm on tour. You won't even notice I'm gone."

* * *

"What do you mean, Chloe's there?"

"I mean, that she is _here_. At Barden. In prison. WITH ME," A now clothed Beca nearly shouted into the pay phone, scrunching a hand through her still wet hair. The woman on the phone next to her sniffled, tears running down her cheeks. Beca tried to form some semblance of a smile before turning her back and whispering forcefully into the phone. "I can't do this Jesse. Get me out of here."

"I don't think it works like that, babe."

"I don't care. Break me out. We can go to Mexico. Or Russia. It doesn't matter, somewhere that won't extradite us."

"You hate the cold and you don't speak Spanish."

"I could learn!"

"Beca, calm down. Take a deep breath. Do it again." Once she had complied, he continued. "Just do your best to ignore her and stay out of her way. Remember what we talked about? Keep your head down, do your time, and get out. She's not worth extending your sentence for bad behavior."

"I know," she said miserably, kicking at the wall.

"Hey, you're three days down. That's only 362 more to go!"

"Great."

"Buck up, Becaw."

"Kind of hard when I'm in a place where tampons can be traded like currency, Jess."

"You can make it. Look, babe, I gotta go, Donald's coming over to watch the game and I think he just got here."

"Okay," Beca cleared her throat, attempting to keep her voice from cracking. "Have fun."

"I will. Remember, head down, okay?"

"Okay."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

The call disconnected with a click, leaving Beca to stare at the wall, still holding her phone to her ear, the only sound coming from the crying woman next to her.

* * *

An hour later, Beca slid into a seat next to Stacie, a tall, friendly transgendered woman who had taken one look at Beca's dark eyeliner and intricately messy hair and declared them friends. This had turned out to be somewhat of a blessing for Beca, who'd quickly learned that there was a distinct hierarchy within Barden. The whites didn't interact with the Asians, but got along with the blacks, who, in turn, did not associate with the Mexicans, but did have an alliance with the Asians. Each race had its own set of subcategories and pecking orders, with intricate relations and connections to other groups. While people mostly stuck to their groups, Beca had noticed that on an individual basis, some black women had no problem interacting with certain Mexican women, or some Asian women would speak casually to particular white women. It was all very confusing and very reminiscent of high school, Beca thought, but Stacie assured her that it was much more dangerous than that.

"Alright Mitchell," a woman who insisted on calling herself Fat Amy pointed her spoon in Beca's direction. "We gave you a grace period, now spill. What'd you do?"

"Huh?"

"To get in here," Amy said. "For example, I'm in here for being falsely accused of theft and indecent exposure."

"I heard you were caught on camera breaking into a gas station naked and stealing a four boxes of Twinkies and throwing them at cars off an overpass," Stacie rolled her eyes.

"To be fair, I was very, very drunk, and that was my evil twin sister who already had a record. It's a case of mistaken identity."

"Right."

"But let's go Mitchell, what'd you do?"

"Um," she looked up at Stacie, who nodded. "I kind of assisted an international drug cartel a little bit."

"Really?" Stacie raised an eyebrow. "How?"

"Were you a drug mule?" Amy asked excitedly. "Did you have to, you know, shit them out? Or were you carved up like a Christmas ham? Can I see the scars?"

"Uh, no. I, uh," Beca ducked her head. "I used my tour as a cover to carry money for somebody a couple of times."

"Your tour?" The girl to Amy's left cocked her head in confusion.

"Yeah," Beca lowered her voice and reached to play with her bracelet, only to realize that she didn't have it on due to dress code regulations. "I kind of do a music thing. It's no big deal."

"No big deal?" Stacie scoffed, jerking a thumb towards Beca. "Girlfriend is a big time producer radio person. Like, Grammy winning shit."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Beca admitted with a shrug.

"And you're here?"

"... Yeah," she sighed. "The girl I was dating at the time was involved with some sketchy people, and I helped her out a couple of times, and got fucked over."

"No shit?" Amy leaned forward. "By Red over there?" She nodded her head towards Chloe, who was sitting at a table alone and reading a book as she ate. Beca briefly wondered what she was reading before facing Amy.

"How do you know-?"

"So it's true," she nodded smugly at the girl on her left. "Pay up."

"What are you-"

"So were you and Red like, a thing? You know, doin' some lady lovin' on the downlow? I heard you two were all hot and heavy-"

"How did you-"

"Tell me, is it true what they say about redheads? Because-"

"Amy, leave her alone," a voice came from behind them, belonging to an eye rolling blonde. Everyone at the table sat up slightly straighter in her presence. "She's barely been here three days, let her adjust."

"Aye aye, cap'n," Amy shrugged, turning back to her food after winking at Beca.

"Mitchell, this is Posen," Stacie said to a red-faced Beca as the woman sat down, smoothing out the apron she was wearing over her prison clothes.

"Hi."

"Hi," Posen nodded, pulling a pack of yogurt from the apron and sliding it to Beca. "Welcome to Barden. Have a yogurt on the house for your suffering."

"Thanks," Beca smiled, peeling the lid. "This food here is uh... really something."

"You think?" Posen examined her nails, watching Beca out of the corner of her eye.

"I think I'd rather eat dirt, honestly," Beca rolled her eyes, freezing at the table's panicked looks and feeling a sense of dread wash over her. "What?"

"Posen, uh, runs the kitchen," Amy filled her in, glancing nervously in the blonde woman's direction.

"Shit," Beca said under her breath. "I'm really sorry, what I meant was-"

"Enjoy your lunch, ladies," Posen stood, smiling scarily at Beca before she walked away, leaving the table in an awkward silence.

"I'm fucked, aren't I?" Beca sighed.

"Yep"

"Uh huh."

"Screwed."

"Great."


End file.
